09/04/2026
~ When the Frogs Went Silent~
The goal that night was simple: capture the Milky Way rising above Mount Bachelor in Central Oregon.
I set up my tripod along the northwest shore of Sparks Lake, surrounded by a marshy landscape of tall grasses and buttercup flowers. It was one of those rare locations where everything seemed perfectly aligned—the lake, the mountain, the landscape, and, if the skies cooperated, the Milky Way.
Thousands of frogs sang throughout the marsh, creating an almost hypnotic soundtrack to the darkness.
I sat down on a nearby ancient, decaying log and poured myself a cup of hot coffee from an old, nickel-plated aluminum thermos. I took a sip of the mocha-flavored coffee, settled in, and waited.
Then I noticed clouds beginning to build in the south.
My heart began to race.
Those approaching clouds could easily ruin the entire photograph if they moved into position before the Milky Way appeared. Timing was going to be everything.
A few minutes later, the Milky Way emerged, visible to the naked eye. Its position was almost exactly where I had hoped it would be—perfectly aligned above Mount Bachelor.
I took the photograph.
Then another.
I looked at the back of the camera.
Beautiful.
I took another.
And then something changed.
The frogs had stopped singing.
The sudden silence sent a chill down my spine. I slowly looked around, wondering if something—or someone—had entered the marsh without my noticing. I could see nothing. I could hear nothing.
I turned back toward Mount Bachelor.
That’s when I saw it.
A quick, eerie flash illuminated the approaching clouds to the south.
Lightning.
A few seconds later, the distant rumble of thunder followed.
Capturing the Milky Way over Mount Bachelor would have been impressive enough. But capturing lightning illuminating the distant clouds beneath the Milky Way?
That could be something extraordinary.
I moved the tripod farther out into the marsh, completely reconfigured my composition, and began waiting for the next flash.
It came.
Then another.
The lightning repeatedly illuminated the approaching storm clouds, creating a spectacular combination of stars, mountain, clouds, and electricity.
I kept shooting.
My heart was racing with excitement.
Then I realized something I probably should have recognized much sooner.
I was standing directly in the path of the storm.
I was in a wet marsh, surrounded by water and open ground, holding a metal tripod—with absolutely no trees, shelter, or protection nearby.
This was no longer simply a photography opportunity.
It was a recipe for disaster.
I yelled for the dog, grabbed my equipment, and hurried out of the marsh toward the car as quickly as I could.
Once safely inside, I drove farther down the road to an open area overlooking the marsh, Mount Bachelor, and the approaching lightning storm.
Within minutes, the storm arrived.
The wind suddenly intensified. Hail began falling sideways. Rain pounded the vehicle, and the force of the storm was strong enough to shake the car.
I sat there, watching the sky explode around me.
There was no way I was getting out of that car.
The thought never seriously crossed my mind. I was too scared, and not stupid.
My heart was pounding. My breathing was tense and shallow. Lightning flashed seemingly everywhere, followed almost immediately by thunder. Wind, rain, and hail hammered the car from every direction.
And yet, somewhere between the fear and the adrenaline, there was still the photographer in me.
I had to try.
With considerable hesitation, I rolled down the window. I placed the camera and tripod on the passenger seat, pointed the lens toward the direction where I believed Mount Bachelor and the lightning would line up, composed the frame as best I could, and waited.
Then the sky lit up.
I pressed the shutter.
Another flash.
Another shutter release.
And another.
My finger was shaking so badly that I had no idea whether I was actually capturing the lightning or simply reacting to each flash of light.
I couldn’t see the results.
I could only hope.
As quickly as the storm had arrived, it passed over and continued north.
The rain stopped.
The wind faded to a gentle breeze.
And I sat quietly inside the car, shaking—not from the cold, but from the combination of adrenaline, excitement, and fear.
I had gone out that evening hoping to photograph the Milky Way over Mount Bachelor.
Instead, nature gave me something I never could have planned.
For a brief moment, the Milky Way and a violent lightning storm shared the same sky.
It was beautiful.
It was terrifying.
And it was one of the most unforgettable photographic experiences I have ever had.
These are the images from that extraordinary moment in time.
